Insanity
by peasblossom13
Summary: Harry lifted his head up slightly from the cold desk to see the wand snap between his hands... A story of the clever way ... someone... dies.


---He lifted his head up slightly from the cold desk to see the wand snap between his hands. He rested his forehead back down as he placed the pieces in front of him carefully, making them clearly visible, the sound of the split of the wood resonating in his head. A cold breeze made its way into the tower and Harry let himself react to it. His body not only shivered but a sigh was released in response to the wind. ---

There had been no debate as to where it would take place.

"The astrology tower hasn't had any point to us so far. Let's make use of it." Ron had said.

Letting her hands drop from being warmed by the fire made from what was left of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, Hermione replied quietly with, "I suppose I don't see why not there." She was shaking and holding back tears. They would have comforted her, but they did not for fear they would break down and do the same. Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville. None of them liked the situation at hand.

They could have done it there, of course. Deep in the many rooms of Sirius's old home. The walls were still standing, even if the interiors were not. But they feared it would give away too much. And if something went wrong for the rest of them, too much would be lost. Not that much existed to be lost.

Neville was the worst of them all. He had a right to be.

---Harry told him self not to think, and not to stifle anything. He had seen insanity before, or at least some. He had witnessed bits of Sirius' habits left over from his days being locked away for years. His godfather would twitch without noticing, and his arms had a mad way of showing how he felt - happy or sad, angry or frustrated. Harry tried that. How did he feel? Desperate. He focused on his arms, letting them do what they wanted, expressing how desperate he felt, only limiting them to the point where his forehead still stayed on the desk, now made warm by his sweat. ---

When Remus caught word of their plans, he called Harry to his bedside at St. Mungo's. He had never fully recovered from the day Hogwart's was attacked, simply getting worse day by day… and in turn, only making Tonk's heart worse at the same rate.

"Harry," he grumbled while sitting up in his bed, "What you've planned to do is very… interesting. But will only work if you transform yourself." Harry painstakingly reminded him that he never learned to be an animagus, a fact he resented.

"No, Harry," he replied, a slight smile making its way onto his scruffy face. "Not like that." He went on to describe how he felt every full moon when his body lost touch with his mind. Describing how he had no control over his thoughts, similar to someone who was… mental. How he usually felt hopelessness when he transformed, and in the process, his body – hands, head, back, legs – felt hopeless as well when they changed, try as his brain might to stop it.

"That's what you need to do, Harry. Lose control over your body. Go with impulses; what ever you feel, let it take over. Hold back nothing. If your smallest toe feels like moving, move it. Find energy in what you feel, and you will do it. And tell Neville… the same."

---So Harry did. And sometimes in that small Astronomy room, his desperateness turned to frustration, and his arms twisted until he could feel his frustration at the tips of his fingers. And sometimes, frustration turned to anger, and Harry's voice would come. Maybe small and short grunts in his breath while he was feeling the anger in his shoulder, other times when his overwhelming emotion come out through, not a part of his body, but through a scream that relieved him. Time seemed non- existent. All that was, was him, whatever he was feeling that very moment, and the thought pushed back into the depths of his brain, that the Dark Lord would be walking through the door of the astronomy tower, seeing Harry weak. ---

They had not always planned to have Harry insane. They had originally simply intended to infiltrate the word of his resignation through the wizarding world. That Harry had given up trying to fight the Dark Lord. But rumors spread, as rumors tend to do, and soon Harry had not only given up, but had become depressed after his mentor and former headmaster dies. That he drove himself crazy because of his searching for something. '_The Horcruxes.'_ No, he had found those.

Insanity. Why else would he give himself up? _'Yes. Why else indeed.' _They went with these, 'Why Not's'. The trouble was how to get there. How to get to where and what the rumors said. And, as if to direct answer to their question, more word had spread saying that Harry was being kept in the abandoned Hogwarts tower.

Now the only trouble was Neville.

---Twisting, turning, twitching, pounding, clutching, pushing, shouting, pulling, shaking. Always moving because he was always feeling.

Forehead still connected to the desk, Harry could not see him, but slightly began to sense his presence. He went about going insane, nothing changed, except that now there were tears. Tears he didn't hold back. Harry heard Voldemort talking, laughing, and now Harry had fear to mix in like an extra ingredient.

Words repeated, over and over in Harry's mind, falling into place like the next phrase in a poem you've heard somewhere in your childhood. Not only, _"…the cup, the snake, something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's… the locket… the cup the snake…"_ no, he had found those, but now words of Dumledore's, _"…The prophecy does not mean you _have_ to do anything…you are free to choose your way, quite free to turn your back on the prophecy…" _Harry wasn't turning his back on it; simply, expressing himself through it.

In a mad rush, Harry was no longer in his chair down on his desk, but had been picked up, lifted, by Voldemort's single thumb, which had forcefully jabbed itself into Harry's scar. He was now feeling pain, not so much of an emotion, but it was centered in his forehead. He held back no scream nor sob as he was pushed back against the wall by the one skinny, slimy thumb. Barely maintaining his feet on the ground, Harry was acting no longer. ---

Neville clasped his mouth shut trying to steady his breathing with his also quivering hand. Not far from the Astronomy Tower, he hid in a dark passage, undiscovered by most who set foot in Hogwart's during its time. He was to be signaled when Voldemort entered the area by the clever face - changing coin in his hand.

Remus had told him he need to find it inside of him to be able to do what he had to. So, Neville, not without fear, began to find the anger and hatred hidden inside of him for so long. He had never associated anything other than fear with the name Voldemort. Neville saw nothing between a wand held up to his parents releasing an unforgivable curse, and a wand doing the same to him, leaving him in a hospital room right next to his mom and dad…

… That made him a little angry. He held on to the coin tighter as he found more hate, and more hard and dark feelings seemingly coming from nowhere. He let images and thoughts run through his mind. His pestering grandmother. Regular visits to the hospital wing. His undeserving parents. His undeserving parents offering him candy wrappers as a Christmas present. And somewhere, out in the depths of amorality, Bellatrix Lestrange yelling that if one wanted to perform an unforgivable spell, one had to mean it!

It was not long before he was raging and had the dire need to hurt something. Or someone. He kept the anger alive and vibrating in his clenched fists as he felt the coin mold inextricably with his thoughts.

---Harry felt the pain all through out his body now. The painfully undeniable truth that the way his body was shaking and the reason why he was screaming was being not caused internally, but by an outside force might had been the reason why the moving and screaming wasn't helping him to relieve emotion any more. He wanted it to stop. He was dying. He felt death coming closer and closer. Death not as a bright light, but as all the occupied spider webs and haunting dreams he had ever known. He could sense it. He could see it coming to get him. Yes, death took the form of an eighteen year old boy… no… Neville. Coming not only closer, but behind Voldemort. Silently and hatefully. Very clearly hatefully enough. Harry took his real wand out of his robes, just to be safe. Harry could not help, even though all the pain created solely by his foes thumb, but to smile. To smile right in the Dark Lords face. Smile because they had finally won. Even laugh because of the puzzled look on Voldemort's face. This only made him seem even more insane.---

Neville did not need to yell to have enough force behind his words. He said it strong, hatefully, and most importantly, powerfully. And it came as naturally as scratching irritated skin. Just like that, in fact. And with the unforgiven curse, Avada Kadavra, as the light left his wand, it seemed his anger and hatred he had felt so deeply not but minutes before, left with it. And when he saw the dark lord fall like a thing not in touch with his brain toward the floor, Neville felt nothing but relieved.

( Until, that is, he saw the bright light that had come from his wand, go though Voldemort, eliminating him, yet going straight on to do the same to Harry Potter: The Boy Who Died. )


End file.
